


Not So Dearly Departed

by BookishTea



Series: Molliarty [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gothic novella, Mark Hooper - Freeform, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Possessive Jim, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Vampires, Violence, halloween fic, molliarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-07-29 05:13:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16257365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookishTea/pseuds/BookishTea
Summary: “He had required, to enhance his gratification, that his victim, the partner of his guilt, should be hurled from the pinnacle of unsullied virtue, down to the lowest abyss of infamy and degradation.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone!  
> I just want to preface everything, by first discussing the tags. Certain scenes(mainly in chapter one), are dubious in nature. I want to make sure everything is tagged properly, so if you feel like I've missed one, please send me a message. The last thing I want to do, is to make any of my readers uncomfortable.
> 
> The quote, and the character Lord Ruthven comes from John William Polidori's short story, _The Vampyre_. And finally, I want to thank the following individuals for acting as soundboards for this fic. The lovely [ll_again](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again), [Ridiculosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ridiculosity/pseuds/Ridiculosity), and [Iridogorgia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iridogorgia/pseuds/Iridogorgia). And as always, I want to thank [whyimmathere](http://whyimmathere.tumblr.com/) for making the fic cover. ♥

                                                  

 

_October 28th, 1892_

 

It was in the late hours of the evening, when Molly Hooper forced her weary body to unlatch the metal gate encircling her home. She just had two long shifts back to back, hunched over a series of mangled corpses, and she was struggling to keep her eyes opened. With a much grieved sigh, she slipped through the gate, letting it close with a sharp sound as she jogged up the stone steps to her porch.

Behind her, the sunset cast everything in a grey that couldn't make up its mind whether it wanted to be blue or purple, and a fiery orange. Searching through her several jacket pockets for the blasted key, Molly felt a shiver race up her spine. Despite the weather that day had been chilly, she knew it couldn't be entirely blamed on that. No, this cold came from a primal sense of dread.

Like she'd been awakened by being doused with water, Molly's body stiffened. Her natural response was to whirl around, to find out who was clearly spying on her. Noisily, she swallowed the lump in her throat, stomach knotting painfully. On an average day, the neighbourhood she lived in was respectable, quiet... But this was different to that usual polite hush. No, this silence skated along her flesh with the sharpness of a blade, making her hair stand on end.

The fear that she'd finally been found out, was real. That somehow she'd gotten lazy over the years, and someone knew that grouchy Dr M. Hooper really stood for Margaret, instead of Mark. _Click_. She hurried inside, hoping it looked natural in some small aspect. As soon as the door closed, she exhaled a breath she didn't know she was holding.

She jumped a foot in the air at the questioning, "Dear?"

At the end of the corridor, her closest female friend and flatmate, Meena, was dusting her flour covered hands on her apron. Hurriedly, Molly placed a finger against her lips, shooting the silent begging of: _please, be quiet_. Understandably, her friend was confused, but nevertheless, uttered not one word as Molly went into the joined parlour room. Which thankfully, had a window that overlooked the street.

Tiptoeing to it, as though that made a difference, gingerly Molly pushed the curtain an inch back and peered outside. To discover... Nothing. That there wasn't a soul lurking, not even someone employed by the Yard. Only the stretching shadows, which gave her the same regarding stare back. Frowning, Molly let the fabric slip from her grasp and stepped away.

"Perhaps," she murmured to herself, "I imagined it?" She rose a hand to her forehead, half expecting for it to be warm with fever. It wasn't. Dropping her hand, Molly's brows furrowed. "Odd," she whispered.

"That is a fine understatement."

Sighing, she turned to face the worried nurse. "I thought I saw something outside."

Meena leaned against the door frame, "I take it, it still isn't there?"

"No, but now..." Molly squinted, pondering it a little further. She shook her head. "Forget it." From across the room, she could still feel her friend carefully looking her over, trying to decode what was wrong, and whether there was anything she could do to fix it.

"Are you sure?"

Molly nodded, ripping the moustache from her upper lip. "It's fine, dear. I think I just need some more sleep."

Not satisfied with that response, Meena hummed, and headed back into the kitchen. Molly slipped her fingers under the wig to remove the spirit gum, as she listened to pots clashing together. With a wince, she managed to take it off, carrying the shed pieces with her to her bedroom. Tucked away on a dresser, she then rid herself of the rest of her facade. Suit, trousers, and underclothes were draped over a chair resting in the corner. Swiftly, she switched into a nightdress, and undid the ribbon braiding her hair. Slipping her fingers through the locks, to be rid of the tangled mess, Molly padded out of the room, and down into the kitchen.

There was already a bowl of soup on the table awaiting her, made from the vegetables that were on the verge of being tossed in the bin. Even then, somehow Meena had made it appear delectable.

With a loud, but grateful, sigh, Molly took her seat.

"So," the other woman begun, "are you still considering his offer?"

Molly glanced upwards, picking up her spoon. When she looked back down, she mumbled, "Who?" She couldn't see, but she could sense Meena rolled her eyes at that.

"Don't be difficult, dear, it doesn't suit you."

Snorting, Molly reluctantly admitted, "I've thought of it more."

"But...?"

Wordlessly, Molly twirled her utensil, watching as the rippling broth made the potatoes bob. The pause let her have the chance to think, to ponder over the situation she foolishly had gotten herself into. "I don't enjoy the idea of being some pretty trinket that he shows around," Molly squinted, "I thought he'd think of me more than that."

"Are you sure, that wasn't your first mistake?" She looked upwards, staring at the observant gaze directed at her. "I don't mean to offend, but dear, your..." Meena waved her hand dismissively. "Suitor, doesn't strike me as a man who is of moral integrity, and tenderness."

"No," she said after a lengthy pause, "I suppose he isn't." And yet, that didn't stop the strong attraction she felt towards Sir Moriarty. Molly shook her head, "I don't think it matters in the end. I'm not the type of woman that one shows around at social gatherings, I don't converse well."

"Why don't you pretend that they're dead?”

"Even then, I'd still prefer the comfort of my morgue, and the recently deceased, to some lord and ladies. The dead aren't nosy, they can't discover and use your secrets."

"And yet, you find yourself being courted by Sir Moriarty of all people."

Groaning, Molly dropped her head into her hands. Wishing that whatever deity watching over her, would alleviate her of the headache that was her life.

* * *

 

_Saturday morrow, St. Barts_

 

When Hooper strolled into the morgue for his shift that morning, he was shocked to already be seeing a covered corpse on his slab. Removing his coat and jacket, he placed them on the hook by the door, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows. To himself, he mumbled, "And who might you be?"

Dr Stamford, who had been dutifully jotting down notes in the corner, removed the glasses perching on the end of his nose. "The poor thing came in early morning."

Mark rose a brow, "Did they now?" Walking up to the slab, he peeled back the white sheet offering the dead some form of modesty. A young girl's muddy face greeted him, she couldn't be older than sixteen. Mark clicked his tongue in dismay, "No one has come to claim her?"

"No, not yet."

He lowered the sheet further, eyeing the old dark print frock, the worn-down shoes. Frowning, he let the fabric slip from his fingers, in favour of leaning closer to the girl. Inhaling deeply, he could smell the scent of dirt, and the collection of flowers she'd attempted to sell on the streets. Chrysanthemums, aster, and a hint of roses. Mark marginally moved back, a stone of anger in the bottom of his belly, as he studied the dead girl's pale expression.

Brows drawing together, Mark lifted one of her wrists. "Stamford?" He called out. "Did someone start embalming her?"

There were a few seconds before his colleague, uttered a confused, "No? She was found in that state."

"Strange," Mark set the arm back down, "she appears to be drained of blood, but no major incisions." Her wrists weren't slashed, and her legs were free of any apparent wounds. Their patient could be considered rather clean, if it weren't for the dirt - but that was natural, if one took into account her social standings. Flabbergasted, Mark next inspected the neck. He brushed the blonde locks away from her throat.

"Ah!" If he were any lesser of a pathologist, perhaps Mark would have missed the two incredibly tiny cuts. They had the appearance of being from needles, with flecks of dried blood on the puckered flesh. He tilted his head, squinting at the sight as Dr Stamford joined him at his side.

"Perhaps, someone of a medical background is to blame?"

"If so..." Mark broke off, covering the girl completely once more. "His techniques are completely at a loss on me. I haven't seen something like this before."

"No, but I have." Mark turned fully around, staring at his colleague. "It was several years ago," Dr Stamford hurriedly explained, "an oddity that occurred a handful of times, before it disappeared altogether."

"And was the culprit never captured?"

Michael shook his head, running a hand through his thinning hair. "You have to understand what it was like at the time, the public was in a frenzy. It was like the Whitechapel murders all over again, that _he_ had begun his nefarious work once more."

Both of Mark's brows shot up, tone low as he asked, "You can't be serious?"

"Unfortunately, I am, Dr Hooper. The Yard claimed to have gotten their man, but..."

"But... An innocent man might have been jailed..."

Michael looked away, flushing with shame - that perhaps, he could have done more. A question tugged at the corners of his mind, making him doubt his abilities in this field. Whether the case would have had the same results, if his junior had been in his stead. He sighed aloud, trying desperately to push aside the feeling of envy that arose. Michael knew it wasn't proper to think that way, that Dr Hooper had every right to be here. But still... He still felt these horrid emotions.

The rest of their shift, until midday came around, was spent in relative silence. When the enjoyment of St. Monday was finally upon them, both quietly donned their coats, and said their goodbyes before leaving. It wasn't entirely from tension, no, both doctors found themselves preoccupied with their thoughts.

For Dr Stamford, it was recalling the past, while his colleague lamented over the future. Of how busy the morgue would become, of how a sense of melancholy would wash over London. All of these thoughts, were chained to the respective doctors' feet, weighing them down as they departed for home.

* * *

 

 

As he paid the cab driver for his services, Mark had little way of knowing of the unwanted guest awaiting him within his home. After he handed the coin over, Mark let the carriage door shut behind him as he trudged from the street, past the gate, and unlocked the front door.

The door now firmly closed, Mark found himself standing in the entrance hallway. Usually his feline companion, Tobias, ran to greet him. Only there wasn't any sight of him, nor his chirping. Troubled, he walked carefully down the corridor, mindful of the floorboards he knew creaked, before he entered the living room.

The fireplace was ablaze, cracking loudly, as it outlined the seated Moriarty in orange, and yellows. Even with the curtains drawn tight, and the shadows looming, still Molly could see the smirk directed at her.

Pointedly, she turned back around again, removing her moustache and wig. Attempting a stoic, "And what an honour it is, for you to grace me with your presence." She tried not to be too annoyed by the fact that Tobias was perched on Jim's lap, purring contently. _The traitor he was..._

She frowned at the answering chuckle. It was far too delighted for her liking. "Oh, I'm sure it is, my dear Hooper." She rolled her eyes heavenwards.

Tossing the hair to her disguise onto a nearby corner table, Molly faced him again. "With all due respect, Sir. Why are you here?"

Moriarty cocked a brow, "Am I not allowed?"

"I made no claims..."

"But...?"

Molly pursed her lips.  "But," she mumbled back, "a letter of warning before your arrival is always appreciated. At least then, I could have put the kettle on."

"Yes, I suppose I could have. It would have taken the fun out of the surprise, but I could have still done it." It was silent after that, aside from the thundering of Molly's pet.

Begrudgingly Molly forced herself to ask, "Would you still like one?"

"Oh yes," he hissed, "with plenty of milk, please."

After a quick journey to the cool pantry, Molly rummaged for a pair of 'pretty' teacups, while she listened to Jim pace around the flat. She knew he'd already been through all of her things, but still, he found it necessary to do it. Honestly, his fondness of annoying her was getting out of hand.

"Hooper."

She cursed, nearly dropping the cups. Tossing a glare of her shoulder, she spat " _What?!_ ” All pretense of anger, fell from her face, when he stalked forward. Even with a pleasant smile stretching his lips, the sight of it made her wary. He may have a baffling interest in her, but she wasn't sure whether that extended to forgiving any rude behaviour she might exhibit  - although, in her opinion, it was certainly justifiable.

Moriarty stepped into her personal space, leaning into her. The rest of her hanging dishes, swayed precariously as Molly bumped into the wall. Hands still holding onto the cups, Molly was helpless as he tugged her into him. The whispered, "Hooper," had his warm breath brushing against her ear. Molly instinctively swallowed, mouth dry.

"Yes?" She croaked, trying not to be distracted as the fingers gripping her hip, drummed away. She could almost hear the phantom piano keys playing, alongside with the frantic drumming of her heart.

His nose was skimming over the flesh right below her ear, but as if he was doing otherwise, Moriarty casually inquired "Have you thought about it further?"

"...What?" She had done no such thing. Thinking was completely out of the question at this point.

She shivered at the disappointed plume of air that swept over her neck. That grip tightened, his fingernails cutting through the fabric of her trousers. Immediately, Molly's legs went weak. If she were to be completely honest, only partially from fear.

"The soirée, dear. Are you still declining my invitation?"

"I..." She tilted her head, trying to see his face. "You truly meant it? Wanting me to attend?"

Moriarty snorted. "If I didn't, why would I offer?" He had her there.

"Yes, but..." Molly wet her lips. "Sir, you must know my stance on dinner parties?"

"I do."

Barely, Molly withheld from flinching at the wordless: _and what about it?_ She shifted her gaze, skin pricking with his steady staring. Under her breath, she mumbled, "Do I even have a choice?" His response came in the form of a kiss to her temple.

 

Thankfully, he had left before Meena had arrived home. Knowing eyes, and mischievous hands, disappearing suddenly like it had all been a perverse figment of Molly's imagination. By the time her friend found her sprawled on the sofa, all of her energy was drained.

* * *

 

 

Sleep didn't come easily that night, each time she thought she succumbed to it fully, she found herself groggily blinking at the darkness. This happened, what seemed, an endless amount. A never-ending cycle of torment, that only Beelzebub could have devised. Until, finally, something changed.

At first she didn't realize it, that there was a shift, a difference.

The sound of sheets rustling, and then, the mattress dipped. If she could, Molly would have lifted her head, but she was so exhausted. It was like there were bricks placed on her chest, weighing her limbs down - forcing her to be docile. It made her attempt at struggling, far more pathetic.

Molly didn't know it was possible, but she tensed. Someone had crawled up to lay on top of her, pressing kisses on the skin of her neck. Scream burning her throat, she almost didn't want to see who it was - what this _thing_ was doing to her. A husky voice caressed her ear, a silken whisper, " _Hooper_..." She twitched, at once recognition dawning on her. The name, _Moriarty_ , had relief crashing into her.

It was like a match had been struck, light making the smothering darkness rise slightly.

The only colour to contrast the void, was this nearly black red. The room, and especially Jim, were _drenched_ in it. From the limited vision she had, the colour reflected off of Jim's crooked grin. He looked manic, like a... An animal.

"Hooper," he rasped, as though he'd spent a century without knowing water - that he wanted to drown in her. Gladly, wholly, Molly would let him.

Sharply, she inhaled, lost in the sensation of his teeth scraping along her flesh. _Yes…_ Her eyes fluttered to a close, mouth parting.

In the background, there was an... Odd sound. It begun softly, enough so it was easy to ignore. But gradually, it got louder.  

While Jim pulled back the blanket, and then grabbed the end of her dress hem, Molly finally identified where the source of the sound was coming from. Where her ceiling ought to be, instead, there was this chasm. And within this swirling abyss, there was two golden balls of light.

Molly broke out in a cold sweat, bile rising in her throat, when she recognized what that meant.

Nocturnal eyes, were watching as Jim pushed her skirt up her knees, baring her thighs to this creature. It made Jim's touch, the fingers stroking, and the tongue dragging along her goosebump covered skin, not his own. Instead, she could only think of this _thing_ doing it.

Freely taking what it wanted, rejoicing in her shudders of disgust. And worse yet, she could hear these... Sounds coming from it. This ghastly squelching, that deep in the core of her frightened being, Molly knew, it was pleasuring itself.

Her eyes began to water. Equal parts that she couldn't look away, as to how fucking terrified she was.

After another lazy drag of his tongue, Jim nuzzled the side of her neck, before he bit down. The unforeseen pain, tore a gasp from Molly's lips. Paralysis momentarily forgotten, her body arched - eyes wide. And just like that, she awoke.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_October 30th_

 

After she was freed from slumber's agony, there was little that Molly could do within her home. The rooms to her apartment had become smaller… Colder; their gaze upon her person critical as she slipped out of her bed. It was like the creature, whose eyes still haunted her, had warped this safe haven. No longer were these walls and roof, a form of shelter. No, this place of what had been shaped by love, was now sneering with hate. Shivering from the cold morning air, Molly dressed in a flurry. Quietly, as to not awake her still sleeping friend, she donned her facade, and ate a simple meal from the kitchen - weak tea and a bit of bread, before she left.

Stuffing his hands deep within his pockets, Mark closed the gate with a sniff. He reasoned that Meena wouldn't be awake for a few hours, so a walk seemed most agreeable. The exercise would do him well, in both mind and body. Perhaps with a little distance, he could make sense of last night.

With this in mind, St. James's Park seemed to be the most sensible of a destination. After a short carriage ride, Mark found himself strolling through the park grounds, admiring what the gardeners had planted for this season.

Amidst the vibrant fallen leaves, that crunched crisply underfoot, Mark discovered a sense of serenity. His pace, which had mirrored his restlessness, eventually slowed to a wander. He came to a pause near a cluster of purple anemones, aster, and golden coneflowers.

Mark’s eyebrows furrowed, squinting. It was most likely caused by his returning headache, but the image held a level of saturation, that there was an insistent pain behind the middle of his forehead. He rose a hand, pressing his thumb down against where the discomfort was. As though, that would make a difference.

"Funny, isn't it?"

Eyes flying open in shock, Mark dropped his hand, and cast an embarrassed sidelong glance to his sudden company. "E- excuse me?"

The amused gentleman beside him was well-dressed. The achromatic nature of his attire, and person, made him appear like a watery ink stain on the landscape. His pale complexion, contrasted sharply with his lackluster black hair. And his eyes... The grey depths of them reminded Molly of her patients’ stares. They might as well belong to a doll, lifeless glass reflecting back. Without thinking, Mark's fingers curled in suspicion.

By no means, was this fellow gentleman repulsive, but there was something... Off. And yet, Mark didn't want to look away, couldn't...

"I apologize for the intrusion, Mr...?"

The deep, refined voice of a clearly noble Englishman, had Mark stammering a response. "D-Dr Hooper."

He seemed to like that. With a nod, the other man finally introduced himself, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, doctor. I am, Lord Ruthven."

"T-the pleasure is all mine, sir. Although, I'm still uncertain about your earlier... Musings."

Lord Ruthven tilted his head, a peculiar smile stretching across his face. "I take it, you aren't familiar with floriography?"

"The language of the flowers?" Mark frowned. "Admittedly, I'm not. It always gave the impression of being..." The words fell flat between them, awkward and thick. Slightly, the lord turned to face him further, raising a brow.

On a soft breath, like rustling leaves, he intoned, "You know, it isn't proper. Not finishing a thought." He said it in such a gentle way, but all the same, the back of Mark's neck pricked. Like someone was lightly dragging their fingernails along the sensitive skin. Mark's lips parted. He could think of little else, then the swift need to impress this man. To keep the owner of these grey eyes happy, to stay in his presence. This line of reasoning, truly, he didn’t know where it came from - and how to be rid of it.

That instinctive fear Molly felt, she tried to latch onto it, to let it be her anchor. Slowly, in her mind’s eye, she could see a giant wave approaching, the persuasive roar of it, silencing everything. She was helpless as it advanced towards her, the threat a momentary notion, until the water fell into her. Vigorously bathed Molly with ice and seafoam, til those silly previous emotions were gone, and she submitted.

"I..." He would do anything for him. "You're right," Mark croaked, "I'm being terribly rude. I don't know... I don't know, what I was thinking."

That smile widened. "I don't think you were to begin with. Were you, doctor?"

"N-no, you're quite right." _You're always right. Always_ \- Lord Ruthven took a step closer, demeanor utterly casual, but Mark got lost in the sight. The rest of London melted away, like rain on a painting, all of the colours were dripping down. Everything was a muddled mess, Mark, he...

"Don't worry, Dr Hooper, I'm not upset. What were you saying?"

 _Molly, she_... "T-that... That, superstition is f... F-fo-"

"Foolish." Lord Ruthven finished with a nod. "But you know, doctor," he took a step closer - impossibly close, but it wasn't enough. As though he was the sun, Molly wanted to bask in his warmth. Even if the light was blinding, and she was burned, it would all be worth it. His voice lowered, wrapping around her like a silken sheet. "In every legend, there's a bit of truth."

"Yes," she gasped, "of course."

Gently, Lord Ruthven placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. "It's getting a little cold, Dr Hooper. Perhaps, it is wise that we continue this conversation elsewhere?" He smiled affectionately at Molly's hasty agreeing. "Good," he purred, "I know just th-"

"Mark!?"

That hand immediately recoiled, as Lord Ruthven took a few steps back. The shroud that was on her, was suddenly gone with a quick snap of the wrist. Molly blinked blankly, nearly knocked down with a wave of confusion. As she sputtered, eyes squinting groggily, she lazily slid her gaze from Lord Ruthven to...

"Meena?"

Her friend glanced between them, expression sour.

She gave little warning, before she was walking to Molly’s side, grabbing onto her arm. The grip was tight, but not enough to hurt, her fingers digging into the heavy fabric of Molly’s overcoat. A wordless reassurance, saying: _I am here._

Owlishly Molly blinked at her, before she slowly turned to Lord Ruthven, cheeks warming. Mark coughed into his free arm’s sleeve. “Sir, this is…” He glanced at his friend. “A dear childhood friend of mine, Miss Meena.”

Lord Ruthven smiled amiably, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. In fact, the slight furrow of his brow, gave him the appearance of being miffed. But yet, the tone in which he spoke to them, was nothing if not cordial. “Good morning, Miss Meena, I am Lord Ruthven.”

“Good morning,” Meena sniffed back, turning her gaze to stare out onto the gardens. The lord didn’t seem offended by the action, but Mark, whose wits were now restored was mortified.

“Meena,” he hissed under his breath. He turned back when their company cleared his throat.

“I don’t mean to keep you any longer,” Lord Ruthven paused, glancing between them. Eventually, he settled on Mark, causing him to stiffen. “It was an honour to meet your acquaintance, Dr Hooper. I dearly wish, our paths will cross once more.”

Mark was confused by the sudden shiver that raced up his spine. Before he could dwell on it, or even say his goodbyes, Lord Ruthven was inclining his head to Meena, before he walked away.

Silently the pair stood there, watching as the back of Lord Ruthven’s coat disappeared around the bend. As soon as he was completely gone, Meena was dropping her hand, in favour of clutching either side of Mark’s head.

Taken aback, Molly hissed, “Meena!” She could do little, but hold onto those arms, as her head was forcibly moved. She didn’t know what her friend hoped to achieve, by leaning in close, and peering at her so deeply. Either way, Molly didn’t like it. “What are you doing?!”

Apparently not finding whatever she was looking for, Meena dropped her hands with a heavy sigh, and took a step backwards. “Are you all right, dear?”

“Am I…?” Both of Molly’s eyebrows shot up. “Why on God’s green earth, wouldn’t I be?!”

“Because,” Meena stressed, “when I saw you, you looked…” She broke off, lips pursed.

Frowning, Molly took a step forward, “How did I look?” She studied her friend for a second, worry making her whisper urgently, “Talk to me, Meena.”

Her companion huffed, “I don’t know. When I saw you two together, you looked… Dazed.”

“Dazed?”

“Yes! And that, Lord Ruthven,” she spat his name onto the dirt, “looked so very satisfied with himself.”

“Well,” Molly started gingerly, “he is of a noble birth. They tend to be that way.” She smiled at her friend’s exasperated snort, glad to see her relax, even if it was marginally.

“You’re right in that regard… Though, what were you discussing? Before I interrupted you?”

“Um,” Molly’s brows furrowed. “I’m not quite sure, I think it was about, the flowers?”

“The flowers…?”

Molly shrugged, “He made a comment about the meaning of the gardens. Although, the hilarity of it was lost on me.” Her company turned, appraising the flower beds. Struck with a need to defend her ignorance, Molly mumbled under her breath, “You know how busy I am, I hardly have the time for floriography.”

Her friend’s gaze flicked over to her, smiling tiredly. “Lucky for you, that I know their meaning. Granted, I don’t share Lord Ruthven’s amusement.” Meena gestured to the rows of flowers, specifically to the array of aster and anemon. “The aster symbolizes love, while the other stands for the forsaken.”

 _Forsaken._ That sounded about right. Since that first time she’s met Jim, her life has been in shambles. Confounding, but terrifyingly addictive shambles.

Unwanted memories rose to the surface of her mind. Flashes of sensation. A warm hand placed on her hip, a teasing whisper, and the taste of coffee on another's lips. Molly shivered, hastily shaking her head. _No_. She didn't want to flirt with the idea, to allow Moriarty to further slip into her thoughts. No more than he ought to be.

Already, she had succumbed to his involvement in her life. Her mind, was the last bit of privacy she possessed. If she didn't have that, then what did she have?

James Moriarty was a dangerous, venomous man. Who's bite was just as deadly as his kiss.

* * *

 

_Hours later_

 

Despite forcing her attendance, of course, Jim didn’t find it necessary to at least send a proper outfit. And while Molly liked to believe she was a woman of preparation, when she created the wardrobe for her facade, she hadn’t the foresight to purchase a suit for a social gathering of a high calibre.

Mark Hooper was meant to stay within the shadows. Jim, however, loved to tear away that darkness - loved to see Molly flounder without its protection. Sighing aloud, she mumbled, “What am I going to do?” Her moustached reflection solemnly peered back, wordlessly saying: _I don’t know_.

Molly chewed on her bottom lip, fretting as she patted down her wig for the millionth time. Would it be too much to ask, for the event to miraculously be cancelled?

From her bedroom, she could hear someone knocking on the front door. Eyes closing shut in annoyance, she silently prayed it wasn't meant for her. A couple of seconds later, the yelled "Mark!" gave her all of the answer she needed.

With one last lingering stare, Molly shouted, "Coming!"

She fetched her sack coat, before she headed to the front entrance. It was terribly out of season, especially since it wasn’t noted as kindly as it once was in the preceding decades, but Molly never had a sense for trending fashion - at least, Mark made it so she didn't need one. All the same, her friend gave her a smile. It was a tad sad, but it was still a smile. Donning her own, Molly fumbled with the latches, as she mumbled, "How do I look?"

"Dashing."

Swiftly, Molly reached out. Chest squeezing when her embrace was easily accepted. Hugging the other woman tightly, she breathed in, the familiar scent of lavender oil soothing her frazzled nerves. "I'm okay," she whispered, feeling the other's grip clench. "I'll be safe." Her heart broke in two, when she heard an irked, watery sniffle.

When they pulled away, still linked by their hands, Molly was greeted with a glare. "You better," Meena blinked harshly, "or that clever Moriarty of yours' will be taking a refreshing dip in the River Thames."

Molly's face cracked into a smile, "I'll be sure to share your message." She dropped her friend's hand, in favour of reaching up, and dragging her thumb under her eye. That promise followed her outside, and out into the carriage, ringing in her ears as she sat down.

"Hello, dear."

For a second, Molly didn't say anything, just stared at the image of Meena standing on the porch. When the carriage door finally did close, it was then that Molly shifted in her seat, and finally looked at James Moriarty.

She wasn't sure what she expected. Perhaps, a difference to signify what type of event it was that they were going to. Either way, he wore a finely cut suit as he always did. The darkness to it, made it hard to distinguish the shadows and Moriarty as two separate entities. And following the movement born in the late '60s, a time that created narrow trouser legs, Moriarty's attire was slimming. It transformed him into a gloomy, lithe man that regarded her silently, dark eyes eating her up.

The word _PREDATOR,_ seared itself into her mind. A creature birthed from myth and carnage, that had found its latest meal. Molly thoughtlessly wet her cracked lips, shuddering when Jim's gaze snapped downwards to catch the action.

In all honesty, the thought wasn't entirely unpleasant, being swallowed whole by Moriarty. Resigned to her fate, Molly breathed a simple, "Hello, sir."


	3. Chapter 3

When they arrived at their destination, the sky was curtained with night - the darkness to which, actively attempted to blot out the light emanating from the lit lanterns.

Molly was the first to step out of the carriage, squinting against the orange glow, while the wind nipped at her face. Even from the street, she could hear the commotion inside. Laughter, and music. Her stomach flipped over, wincing at the thought of being surrounded by so many people. All of their attention directed at her, their eyes… Studying.

Molly did the dissecting, not the other way around. What a fool she would be, waltzing in there, with her fake moustache and ill fitting suit. They’d know what a liar she was, that behind the grouchy attitude, there was a scared woman.

The frantic beating of her heart, erased all other noises. It was the drum to the sweet march of death. Molly’s fingers curled, nails biting into her palm. Just as the weight of her doubt seemed to be too much, she felt someone press into her back, and a warm breath grazed her ear.

“Relax.”

With that single word, a command that held an unbelievable amount of power, Molly’s body sagged. The sudden, dramatic change in emotions and tension, drained her completely of her energy. Making Molly pliant to Moriarty’s touch. His hand lightly came to rest on her shoulder, the warmth of his body seeping through the layers of clothing, making Molly forget the harshness of the cold. Slowly, she looked over her shoulder, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, “I don’t think I can-” The finger against her lips, silenced her. Startled, she peered into his eyes, feeling him drag his finger to the side of her jaw - tilting her head slightly. Mesmerized, she watched as a smirk stretch across his face.

“Hooper,” he purred, the sound making her legs go weak. “Are you afraid?” The tone of his voice was on the verge of being mocking, but she didn’t care, not if she could keep those eyes on her. “Don’t be, not of them. The only fear you should have is for me.” His gaze lowered, glancing towards her lips. Molly’s breath hitched. They were already so close, the distance between them nearly non existent. Would he kiss her? Did she want him to? The answering thought was swift. _Yes._ It took her aback how strongly she wished that. Moriarty’s leer deepened, and he pulled away, taking the warmth with him.

Hollowed with rejection, and dazed, she stared after him as he walked around her and headed up the stone steps to the building. He paused on the landing, raising a brow as he tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

Wordlessly Molly hurried after him, cheeks burning as she fell into step behind him. Enough that Moriarty would get the full brunt of the scrutiny, but not so she’d become separated from his company. Ever the gentleman, Jim didn’t comment on it, though he wore an amused smile.

* * *

 

As soon as they crossed the threshold, the abrupt noise was almost unbearable. Desperately, Molly tried to ignore the urge to flee before she was noticed. As if sensing her inner turmoil, a hand shot out, and grasped her wrist. Molly’s head snapped upwards, speechless as she stared at Moriarty. While electricity of their touching pulsed through her body, the panicked bursts of her breathing slowed.

“Sir Moriarty!”

Jim’s hold released, and he turned back around. For a second, Molly longingly stared at him, before she peered to see who had greeted her companion.

The politely smiling gentleman, appeared to be two decades older. After a second of debating, she amended that three was a better number. No matter how much he smiled, this stranger had stern features, ones that naturally twisted his expression into a grimace. Although the outfit he wore was uncomplicated in design, it shouldn’t be mistaken as something of a poor nature. No, this man had a straightforward confidence, one that came from a man that is used to being respected.

It was a bit bewildering that this type of gentleman was looking upon Sir Moriarty with such deference, pale eyes bright with a silent awe, with… Greed. Molly’s brows furrowed, certain that before her was a parasite pretending to be a human.

Realization slapped Molly across her face. While she was pretending to be a male, everyone was wearing their own masks, attempting to fulfil their personal agendas. She knew what she wanted from life, and what she needed to sacrifice to achieve it, but… Her gaze drifted to Moriarty.

There was no doubt in her mind that he was acting as well, but why? What did James Moriarty want, and how did she fit into all of this? What could she, a cross dressing woman, possess that a man who garnered such recognition would invite her to a social gathering?

“And who is your company for tonight?”

Mark blinked into focus. He took a step forward, opening his mouth. “Hooper.” A heavy hand placed itself on his shoulder. Shocked, and clearly not the only one, Mark slowly closed his mouth. There was an unspoken statement floating above everyone’s heads, Moriarty’s confirmation of: _he’s mine_. Mark's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He might as well have wore a collar. Mark bit hard on to the inside of his cheek, only partially ashamed of how the idea didn’t sound completely distressing.

It was several seconds before their company spoke. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Hooper.” The nameless man glanced towards Moriarty, and after seemingly receiving his acceptance, he crossed the distance between them and held his hand out.

Without looking at Moriarty, Mark took it. “Likewise, Mr…?”

“Ah, Sir Allum.”

Their shake lingered longer than he preferred, and he didn’t particularly enjoy the eye contact, but it was progress. Mark stifled a sigh of relief when the grip was released.  “What are you,” he cleared his throat, more than aware of Jim’s entertained eyes observing his person, “what are you in the business of?” There was a moment where Mark feared he had said the wrong thing, but quickly Sir Allum beamed at him.

“You’ve taken the words straight from my mouth, Mr Hooper.”

Softly, Moriarty corrected. “Doctor.”

Sir Allum’s smile shattered into a million pieces, revealing the horror underneath. “Oh, I apologize, Dr Hooper. I hope my insolence didn’t upset you too greatly!”

Hurriedly, Mark shook his head, holding his hands out in front of him. “I couldn’t even dream of it, sir.” He shot a sidelong glare at Moriarty, hoping he wouldn’t antagonize the poor man any further.

Jim rolled his eyes heavenwards, stepping around Sir Allum’s stammering form. “If you excuse us, Dr Hooper and I have yet to partake in any dancing.”

“Of cours-”

Mark hurried after Moriarty’s quick pace, struggling to keep to his side. When they walked further down the twisting hallway, and was certain that they were alone, Mark hissed, “What was that?”

Moriarty tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, raising a brow. “And what specifically would you be referring to, Hooper?”

“What am I-” Mark grabbed Jim’s sleeve, forcing him to stop. In the distance, they could hear the mumble of conversation. “What am I here for, if you don’t want me to talk to anyone?”

Jim’s gaze slid away, mulling his words over. “I never said you can’t talk to anyone, dear.” He looked at him again, “Isn’t that what you’re doing? Talking?”

“But…” Mark gingerly closed his mouth, frown contrasting Jim’s grin. At that moment, he knew that Moriarty was jesting. “You aren’t really mad, are you?”

“Well… It depends who you ask, doesn’t it? Some may say I’m batty, others, brilliant.”

Mark chewed on his bottom lip, “And what do you think?”

Jim lazily shrugged, his expression that of indifference. “It’s the same coin, dear. But why does it matter to you?” He sneered suddenly, taking a step closer, “Would you be afraid if I admitted I was?”

It was then, that the memory of their time together came back to haunt Molly. Memoir fulgurating behind her eyelids. A slideshow of sweat and gasping breath faded into the colours of an early morning sky, sleeping faces and tangled limbs. Jim’s peaceful countenance, and how it took her breath away that he let her see it. The rise and fall of his chest, the comfort that it gave, that he was still with her - the sensation of being covered in goosebumps when he trailed his fingers along the exposed expansion of her back.

It was true, that she was afraid, but not of a manic Moriarty. One simply did not love him without accepting everything. And with a start, she realized she did. A horrid truth, but it was her’s. No, Molly’s sincere fear came from becoming used to someone sharing her bed, and that one night she’d discover it empty. How after she tasted the splendour of companionship, it would all dissipate, that he’d grow bored of her. That she’d be alone again in this big, terrifying world.

Molly swallowed noisily, averted gaze not catching the falter of Jim’s grin. All promise of jeering immediately gone, replaced with this strange emotion - something that he wasn’t used to, and most certainly didn’t like.

He paused, unsettled by the knotting of his stomach, how raw… Vulnerable, it made him feel. Moriarty rose a hand to his nose, pinching the bridge as his eyes closed with an annoyed sigh. “Come on, we’re missing the party.”

* * *

 

The ballroom was a marvel to behold, from the long stretch of glossy hardwood flooring, intricate and delicate chandeliers, to the arched ceiling covered with masterly done frescoes. Even the people inside, who made up a sea of expensive suits and gowns, were a harsh reminder that this was a very different world than what she was used to.

Molly chewed on her bottom lip, anxiously shifting her weight as she stood by the entrance. It felt as if she was on the edge of a cliff, if she closed her eyes tightly enough, she could almost feel the spray of water on her face, and the taste of salt in the air. Only one step forward was necessary, for her to take the plunge.

Dejected, she peered downwards at her own attire for the evening. That alone held her at a distance from everyone else. A deep blue jacket over a stark dress shirt, and its black tie, was paired together with a greyish tan pinstriped trousers. Molly winced, looking back up at the murmur near her side. Moriarty was currently being distracted by a finely moustached gentleman whispering into his ear. From Jim's expression, he wasn't too pleased by whatever was being said. As soon as the gentleman finished whispering, Moriarty gave a curt nod, then turned to her.

"There is something I must attend to." Molly opened her mouth to protest, flooded with a sense of panic. Before she could complain, Jim was gripping her arm, dark eyes not filled with an apology, but instead, a promise. "I'll return shortly," he said gently, tone not leaving any room for debate.

"But..." Molly's brows furrowed, "What am I to do while you're gone?"

The corner of Jim's lips tugged with a smile, the action didn't quite reach his eyes. "Why don't you try your hand at conversing?" He slipped away then, leaving Molly to blankly watch after him as he followed the other man out of the room. 

Not that she would admit it, but immediately she missed him.

Awkwardly, she moved to a corner of the room to be comfortable, with an agreeable view of the couples dancing. While she listened to the wailing of a violin playing, Molly scanned the unfamiliar faces. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and ignoring her, well... For the better part. Occasionally she caught the fragments of a whispered conversation that involved a description that fit her too closely for her liking. As well as the quick, curious glances to her person, Molly felt standing up on a stage would have been more appropriate.

She stifled a sigh, praying that Moriarty would return swiftly.

"What a delightful surprise, is that you, Dr Hooper?" At once, Mark straightened, covering his shock with a smile as he turned. His facade of friendliness waned at the sight of Lord Ruthven standing before him.


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh, hello. You look…” Mark broke off, taking the necessary moment to appreciate the outfit Lord Ruthven chose for this evening. Black jacket and trousers, as well as a crimson vest with gold detail, over a frilled dress shirt. To his surprise, he found that he meant it entirely when he breathed, “Handsome.”

Lord Ruthven’s smile widened, and he too glanced downwards at his clothing. When he looked back up, there was a light in his eyes that made a shiver race up Mark’s spine. “How very kind of you, doctor. I dearly hope that you truthfully meant it.”

“I…” Mark blinked hard, “Of course, sir.”

Lord Ruthven’s attention strayed from him, examining the masses, as if he were looking for someone in particular. When he returned his stare to Mark, there was a satisfied glint to his eyes. “You know,” he started slowly, quiet enough that Mark was forced to lean forward and offer his ear. “We never finished our discussion, did we, Dr Hooper?”

Gingerly, Mark moved away, wondering whether the lord had been searching for Meena as he replied, “No?”

The lord’s face split into a grin, “Then would you care to join me, Dr Hooper, in finding a quieter location?”

“I…” Mark glanced elsewhere. There wasn’t something quite right here, it felt as though there were a million spiders crawling upon his skin. It was odd that his body was giving such a reaction, as this man had been nothing, if not polite. Against his better judgement, and half wishing that Meena would suddenly appear to rescue him, Mark faintly said, “Lead the way, sir.”

Slipping from the ballroom, they went down a series of twisting hallways. After rounding what seemed an endless amount of bends, Mark was forced to realize that he was hopelessly lost, and was relying heavily on Lord Ruthven’s sense of direction to get them back. Although he found reassurance in how calm the other man was, as clearly, he knew these corridors well.

Further and further, the noise from the party quietened. With a curious thrill, Mark inferred that they were on the other side of the building. And from the emptiness of the rooms they walked by, he knew with confidence, that their conversation would not be disrupted like the last time.

Their journey came to an eventual end at a thick set of ornate doors. The lord opened one, and held it ajar, gesturing for Mark to slip past. He did so, but with a timid smile.

Immediately, as soon as he realized where they were, Mark bit hard into his tongue. The need to scream was swift and overpowering. The spacious room had rows, and rows of shelves that wrapped along the walls. The sheer number of books had to well be into the thousands. As far as he understood it, he had stepped into heaven.

As though he’d awoken from sleeping on the dirty floor of a tavern all night, Mark stumbled forward to the nearest shelf, fingers itching with the urge to run them over the novels’ spines. He could hear Lord Ruthven chuckle from behind him, but frankly, Mark didn’t care.

From Homer to Dostoyevsky, it was all here - all waiting for him to read their contents. He stopped on a translated edition of _Don Quixote_ , carefully withdrawing it from its place, and flipping it over to admire the cover. The front board was made of a maroon leather, and scrawled across, the title was written in a golden font. Hurriedly, he opened it. A waft of a familiar, but divine smell, floated around his face. The sweet, musky scent of ink and pages. Mark paused, conscious of his surroundings and whether it wouldn’t be socially acceptable to bury his nose within these pages and inhale.

“I-” Mark flinched, spinning around. He hadn’t heard the lord join him.

Lord Ruthven simply rose a brow, before he continued speaking, arms held behind his back. “I’m rather fond of Miguel de Cervantes myself. A sad sort of man, after that nasty bout of enslavement.” His casual way of speaking of the author, took Mark aback. He spoke as though he had met him, which was obviously not possible.

“Y-yes,” Mark coughed lightly into his sleeve, “I’m sure such an event would dampen a man’s personality.”

Lord Ruthven hummed, apathy colouring his expression. There were a few strained moments, where neither party made any additional remarks. Gently, Mark shut the book, and slipped it back into its home. He hovered by the shelf, not quite wanting to turn around, while also being highly distressed by the feeling of Lord Ruthven’s eyes digging into his back. Mark chewed on his bottom lip, before he reluctantly inquired, “Sir?”

“...Yes?”

Mark’s nose scrunched, watching as his fingers began to tremble. “You mentioned it earlier, your want of a conversation?” He waited for five seconds to pass by, before he finally did the action he dreaded. He turned around. Lord Ruthven was awaiting him with what Mark hoped, was an intrigued countenance.

* * *

 

_Meanwhile_

 

Sebastian Moran peered upwards when the tempo of his employer’s drumming quickened. He’d been in Sir Moriarty’s service for a number of years, and could reasonably sense when Moriarty was working himself into a mood.

From the blank expression, to the annoyed tapping, he knew that this was one of those moments. Sebastian fought the urge to sigh, knowing fully well how that would worsen the other man’s temperament. And if he did that, then there would be more of a mess to clean up - more work for poor Sebastian.

The source of all of this annoyance, foolishly began to speak again. A lofty Baron that was the head of a financing family, he had recently gotten himself into some hot water. His mistress had recently died under suspicious circumstances, and immensely the Baron was worried that it had been a warning - that in the impending future he’d be the next to go. Worst of all, the Yard was currently investigating the death. The family of the mistress, had been quite vocal about it, and had put the Baron’s previous gifts to good use to unmask the killer.

The sobbing man before them, assured that he was innocent, and that this was all planned by the dastardly fiend. And though he knew he wasn’t guilty of murder, the same couldn’t be said about corruption, and fraud. Either way the Baron turned, he knew he would suffer from repercussions. Unless… A certain gentleman applied his clever touch to the situation, then all of his problems would disappear.

The only sound to cut through the Baron’s tearful pleading, was the leather of Jim’s seat creaking as he addressed his silent sniper. He spoke in the quietest of tones, but it sliced the atmosphere cleanly in half. “ _This_ ,” Jim started with an aggravated gesture to the Baron, “is why you’ve interrupted me?”

Sebastian shrugged, taking another deep inhale from his cigarette. When he exhaled a burst of smoke, Moriarty leaned back in his chair, and harshly scrubbed his hands down his face.

From his corner, Sebastian could see a redness to the base of Moriarty’s throat. It looked like his employer was close to exploding, but before it could happen, a knocking filled the tense atmosphere. Behind his hands, Moriarty grunted roughly, “Come in.”

The door across the room opened just enough that a man could slip inside, and then it was firmly shut again. The servant took in his surroundings for only a second, gaze rapidly shifting to stare at everyone, before he said, “Sir, I was told to update you if there was a change in the doctor’s whereabouts.”

Sebastian’s head snapped up, watching as Moriarty hissed, “And?” from beyond his hands.

The servant remained close by the door, in case he needed to flee. “The doctor is no longer in the ballroom, he’s being accompanied by another gentleman.” It was several loud heartbeats for everyone present but one, until Moriarty lowered his appendages.

His voice slid along their skin like a barbed eel slick with arsenic. “I beg your pardon?”

* * *

 

“I did.” Lord Ruthven stepped closer yet, until Mark found himself pressed into the bookshelf. “I don’t wish to overstep any boundaries, doctor. But I find you…” The lord leaned down, a peculiar smile stretching his lips. “A terribly interesting specimen.”

Mark’s brows knitted together into a frown. He wasn’t overly fond of being regarded as anything akin to an animal used for study. At that moment, he thought of his childhood experiments. Dead birds he’d found in the woods, that he’d snuck home and dissected. He curled his fingers, digging them into his palm. “Should I, take that as a compliment, sir?”

A look of distracted delight flashed over Lord Ruthven’s face, and he moved closer yet. And unlike Moriarty, Mark didn’t feel heat emanating from the lord. No, he only felt this solid presence, an unmovable mass - he might as well have been a pillar.

Mark sharply inhaled, the scent of the lord cascading into him. It was a rather odd smell, earthy, with hints of something floral. Perhaps, dried rose petals?

He didn’t detest it, in fact, there was something queerly comforting about it. Almost, familiar… No, the true uneasiness came from the nearness of Lord Ruthven’s person, and how intently he was peering into Mark’s face. “ _No_ ,” the lord hissed, drawing him from his ponderings, “you should consider it an _honour_.”

Before he could stop himself, Mark’s head snapped to the side, staring at Lord Ruthven in bewilderment. And… The apprehension he had, was gone. Mark could see himself reflected in Lord Ruthven’s impossibly large eyes, expression blank, and slack-jawed.

Whatever worry he might have felt, was replaced with this sensation of wading through balmy water. It washed over his form, pulling at his very being until it felt like he was laying down, splashed with a need to be compliant. Above him, in the darkening sky of this plane of existence, he could see himself. Impassively see, rather than felt, Lord Ruthven handle his lethargic body.

A small part of Molly’s brain, was feebly sending warning signals. The instinct of a prey caught by a predator, screamed: _RUN. RUN. RUN. RUN._ In response, she tried to pull herself out of the water, to escape its grasp, but her limbs refused to cooperate.

Lord Ruthven gently grasped her chin, and tilted her head to the side. From this shift in perspective, Molly could stare forlornly at the door across the room. So close, and yet, impossibly far away. His nose brushed along the skin of her throat, inhaling deeply. Molly broke out into goosebumps. Razor sharp teeth scratched along her flesh, enough pressure for her to have a taste for what was to come, but not to break the surface.

Her fingers curled in dismay, crushed in between their bodies. Then came the pain, as he bit down. It was fleeting, as it was overcome with this pulsing that spread from the crown of Molly’s head, to the tips of her toes. Eventually her sluggish mind pieced together that it was her heartbeat, accented by the energy that was being drained.

Lord Ruthven abruptly stiffened. Swiftly he licked at the wound, dragging of the tongue sealing the small markings and then healing them. He pulled away, holding a strong hand onto Molly’s shoulder, as he delicately dabbed at his stained mouth with his free hand. Half a second later, Molly groggily watched as the door crashed into the wall.

From the door frame, Moriarty was glaring at them. 

Molly numbly blinked, still reeling from her befuddlement. What felt like tendrils slipped from her mind. She wet her dry, cracked lips, soughing “Jim” into the electrified air. He didn’t look at her, as he walked briskly into the room. His attention was entirely directed at the lord, masked with a smile, and hands stuffed deeply into his trouser pockets.

He came to a stop between them, back to Molly as he addressed Lord Ruthven. Blocking the other man completely from her line of sight. Softly, he stated, “I don’t believe we’ve met. A horrid problem for me, as I make it a habit of knowing everyone.”

“No,” Lord Ruthven agreed, “we haven’t, Mr… Jim, was it?”

The stiff smile Moriarty wore, sharpened. “Only to a few.” In the wake of the following silence, Jim cast a lazy glance over his shoulder, gaze raking up and down Molly’s form. Her recovering nerves weakly tingled in response. On the tip of her tongue, there was something she wanted… No, needed to say. It felt strangely like a warning, but she no idea what she would caution him about, not with the dull throbbing of her temple to distract her.

Moriarty turned back, rolling his shoulders. “It seems that I’ve interrupted your rendezvous with my Dr Hooper.”

Lord Ruthven rose a brow in reply, “Nothing you aren’t more than welcomed to join.” He gave his own smile.

Jim sniffed haughtily, “I’m not one to stand on uneven grounds, Mr…?” From behind him, Molly weakly supplied, “Lord Ruthven.” Something that was apparently the wrong thing to do, if she considered the stiffening of Jim’s shoulders.

Molly’s brows furrowed. Confused by Moriarty’s sneered, “Ah, we’re in the company of a lord, are we?” Did he, perhaps, mistaken her answer for naming of a lover?

“You are,” Lord Ruthven admitted, “although my offer still stands,  _Jim_.” If Moriarty was bothered by his own name being tossed back into his face, he didn’t show it. No, he simply rocked to and fro on his heels, grin widening.

“Granted, the proposition is tempting. However, I’m not a man who is fond of sharing.”

All civility left Lord Ruthven as he frowned. As old as a being as he was, he prided himself in inspiring mortals to devotion and servitude. A skill which came as naturally to him as not breathing. Very few were troublesome to manipulate, even less to frighten. He wasn’t entirely sure whether this worm before him, was simply too stupid to recognize a superior creature, or was too stubborn to care. From the thick currents of animosity waving off of him, he reasoned it was probably both.

It was comical how fickle humans can be. He almost missed that, the longing for another being. Lord Ruthven’s gaze slid over to the shivering form peering from behind the worm. The big scared eyes, and the frantic beating of their heart. He absently wet his lips, the rich taste of their blood still on his tongue. A petty thought entered his mind, of taking them with him, just because he could. It wouldn’t be too irksome an action, they were after all, pleasing not only to his taste buds.

He could see them in his mind’s eye, exposed pale and bruised skin, sprawled before him - addicted to his touch. Whether by the means of a trance or from his sheer talent. It was laughable how easily he could do it, lock them in a faraway manor, where only he would know. “Funny,” he said at last, “neither am I.”

* * *

 

There was a moment of silence after Lord Ruthven left, with Moriarty still facing the door as though the lord would reappear again. After he apparently realized how unlikely that was, and that they were officially alone, Moriarty spun on his heel, and snatched Molly’s wrist.

The sudden tight grip stole a pained gasp from her lips. Clearly, he didn't care. No, he was far too absorbed in checking her pulse. Once he was satisfied, he leaned forward until their faces were inches apart. Distressed by the closeness, Molly wanted to move back, but he wouldn’t let her. He gripped her jaw with his hand, fingernails digging into her skin issuing a wordless command. _Stay still_. Molly’s breath hitched as he peered into her eyes, checking to see if she was lucid.

Her hands came to rest on his coat lapels, bunching the fabric. Whatever he saw, it made him pull away, and his eyes come to a close. A guttural sigh slipped from his mouth, and with that low sound, he slumped - without thought, he leaned close to her, almost immersing himself in the faint heat coming from her body.

Molly chewed on her bottom lip, heart giving a pang at the sight. “Jim,” she whispered. His eyes snapped open, and that silent relief was immediately gone.

In a deceivingly calm tone, he asked, “Did you eat or drink anything since you left my side?”

“...No?” Molly mumbled. “Not that I can recall.”

Jim considered this for a moment, before he gave a terse nod. He took a step back. Molly’s hands fell down, and stared at Jim as he offered a bent arm to her. Moriarty was devoid of any emotion as she hooked her arm around his, and slowly led her from the private library and out into the hallway. As the sounds of their footsteps echoed, Molly gave Jim a sidelong glance. “Where are we going?”

“To the ballroom, dear. We still haven’t danced yet.”

She frowned, wondering whether she heard him incorrectly. “You… You still wish to dance?”

“Of course,” he came to a halt, and Molly was forced to do the same. “Unless,” He smiled coldly. “You desire a different partner?”

Molly scoffed. _Bastard_. “Not at all, as I have no need for a dance. In fact,” She removed her arm. “I want to go home. Now.”

 

For once, Moriarty didn’t say anything. Not even during the carriage ride back to her home. The whole time, Molly stared out of the window, relieved when they came to a stop and that she could climb out. Steps hurried, she paused to unlatch the gate, fingers trembling as she did so.

On the chilled breeze, a voice called out to her. “ _Hooper!"_   She didn’t want to turn around, to grace him with her acknowledgement. And yet, she still did it.

He was standing on the carriage’s steps, wind tousling his hair as he stared at her. For a second it was as if he was going to say something important. His jaw clenched, and the grip on the carriage was bone-white. Molly’s nose scrunched. Eventually he called out, “Goodnight!” He didn’t wait for her to reply, the door closed, and with the sound of hooves clacking on the cobblestone, he was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Meena was waiting for her in the parlour room, blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she lounged by the crackling fireplace. "So," she started warily, "how was it?" Her brows furrowed in a frown at Molly's huff, silently watching as her friend shrugged out her jacket, and removed her wig and moustache. Tossing it onto a dresser in the corner, she then joined her on the rug.

Sensing the spirit her friend was under, Meena held her arms out. Embracing the other woman as she fell apart. "Oh, dear." She sighed, soothingly patting Molly's back as she buried her face into her neck.

"I'm sorry," Molly mumbled with a sniff.

"Whatever for?"

"For staining your nightgown..."

Meena wordlessly adjusted the blanket so it was covering them both. "It is quite all right, though, I wish the same could be said for you." There was a moment of delay, in which she mused whether it was right continuing this line of discussion. She cautiously asked, "Did... Did he make you feel like this?" Her eyes narrowed when her friend pulled away slightly, and looked in the other direction.

Molly was reluctant to admit, "Partially," but there was a weight to her shoulders that she wanted gone. And maybe talking out loud about her unhappiness would help her to be rid of it. After a couple of tense seconds passed by, she mumbled, "Why?"

The other woman shrugged. "I need to know who to castrate, dear. Although..." Meena rose a brow. "I'm a tad confused about how the blame is only ‘partial’?"

"Well..." Molly broke off, chewing on her bottom lip.  Her friend's searing gaze made her flush with embarrassment, Molly distractedly scrubbed her hands over her sticky face. Pushing her tangled hair away from her eyes - trying to bring back a semblance of control she didn't possess. "It's partial because..." She squinted. "Maybe I'm simply being silly, but last night was strange."

"Stranger than being courted by a madman?"

"He's," Molly shook her head, "he isn't mad. A little..." She hesitated before she settled on, "capricious, but only because he chooses to be.”

“Who cares if he chose or not? Regardless, he shouldn’t have made you feel like _this_.”

“No… I guess you’re right.”

“There’s no guessing, dear. Now, what was so bizarre at the soirée?”

“That’s the thing. I can’t quite remember.”

“You can’t?” Meena rose a brow, and leaned forward. She placed her hand gently on Molly’s forehead. “Did you eat or drink anything there?” Meena’s eyes narrowed. “Did Moriarty make you?”

Molly sighed at her friend’s venomous tone, pushing the hand away. “No, he didn’t. And that isn’t something Jim would do to begin with.”

“Are you certain? Do you know this _Jim_ so well? Truly?”

It was impossible to keep a bit of a bite from her voice. “I know he wouldn’t do it, because there wouldn’t be any fun to it. Besides, I’ve forgotten most of the evening after I resumed my discussion with…”

Meena leaned forward, taking her hand in worry. “Who?”

Molly frowned, mumbling, “Lord Ruthven.”

“You’re jesting…?”

Sheepishly, Molly shook her head. There were several minutes that passed that neither said anything, and an astounded Meena stared open mouthed at her. After a beat, her flatmate croaked out, “ _Molly_ , why for heaven’s sake, would you do such a thing?”

“Well…” She broke off. Admittedly, she wasn’t quite sure. It seemed their discussion had started as quickly as it ended. But eventually, she still came to a line of reasoning that she could only hope that Meena would accept, “He was the only person of acquaintanceship that was in the room.”

“And what of your Jim? Where was he during all of this?”

Molly anxiously shifted her weight, gaze moving to peer into the crackling fireplace. Quietly she mumbled,  “He was called away. I imagine for business.” She squinted against the light, watching the hungry flames lick at the grate.

To her side, she could hear Meena’s heavy sigh. “And so he left you alone. Lord Ruthven must have been thrilled.” The silence and the darkness around them seeped into one, as thick and comforting as the blanket covering their shoulders. Rather than seeing, Molly felt her friend turn straight ahead, staring upon the same sight of the fireplace. Without thinking, she leaned to the side, pressing her weight into her best friend. Gradually she closed her eyes, sleepy with the heat on her cheeks.

“Perhaps,” she mumbled around a yawn.

Into the night, Meena softly inquired, “What did you speak about with the lord?”

She hummed in response, breathing in lavender and smoke as she rested her head onto her friend’s shoulder. “From what I can recall, not much.” Her brows furrowed, her body was tempting her into slumber, but the question was stealing her focus. _What had they spoken about? And why was it so hard for her to remember?_ After a moment, she finally answered with a “Literature.”

“Literature?” Meena snorted, hand slipping under the cover to find her companion’s. She gave it a light squeeze. “I suppose none should be surprised that even an unusual lord has their recommendations.” The fire agreed with a loud crack. “And what did Jim think of the lord’s advice on fiction?” After a moment of silence, Meena was beginning to think her friend had drifted off, but she was surprised by a slurred response.

“...Not kindly. He doesn’t care for Lord Ruthven.”

Even her friend’s startled “ _What?_ ” Molly found it difficult to stay awake. It felt as though she was weightless, and she was rising from her body. The nurse’s hand, which still clutched her own, tightened considerably. “Dear,” Meena hissed in dismay, “if a man such as your Jim is wary of Lord Ruthven, what does that say about the lord’s character?!”

Molly made a low sound, not quite understanding as her tiredness finally cuts the rope tethering her to consciousness. Content with the security her company offered, she fell asleep.

* * *

 

_October 31st_

 

When Molly was a child, her late grandmother would say, “It’s not safe to venture out as goblins and witches are all about on Hallowe’en.” But it’s been a long time since Molly was that scrawny, scared child, and with the passage of time, she grew to not fear goblins nor witches. No, what chilled her to the bone was the thought of rejection. Forever being lonely, and being discovered for what she truly was. That she’d end up like all of the poor young women who eventually graced her slab, mutilated and nameless. Gone without anyone to mourn her.

As she donned her male facade, she stared dejectedly into the mirror above her vanity. She was plagued with the question whether Moriarty would miss her. Or would he be her inevitable executioner?  She thought then, of him standing on the carriage steps, expression conflicted as he stared grimly at her.

She shook her head, dismissing the image from her mind. There would be none of that today. Hallowe’en, which this year fell onto a Saint Monday, would be one filled with the soothing peace that only her morgue could provide. The ever popular parties and games were the farthest from her plans tonight. And although Meena had kindly invited her to join in on some festivities she’d be participating with her fellow nurses, she declined.

Truly, what she needed was to sit alone and work on paperwork. If she was lucky, there would be a corpse she could dissect. None of the disaster Sir Moriarty seemingly always brought to her life, would be able to touch her there - or, that’s what she prayed for.

With one last content nod of her head, Molly exited her bedroom and walked down to the front of the flat, taking her coat off its hook and donning it.

It was to her pleasure that following slipping outside, and the locking of her apartment’s door, the carriage ride she took from her home to the hospital was done in silence and without incident. For once, she began to imagine her luck had turned around when she was quietly dropped off. This unusual optimistic view acted as her companion when she entered the peaceful halls of St. Barts (or as tranquil as the old building could be).

* * *

 

“Are you certain this is necessary, sir? I know how busy you are, arranging a tail would take away from that needless use of your time.”

Jim sniffed, not bothering to look up from the paperwork on his desk. “Even if it does, I don’t see how it pertains to you, Mr Moran. I pay you to shoot and look pretty, not be a busybody when it comes to my personal affairs.”

Sebastian looked away, smoke encircling his slightly shaking head. For a supposed genius, his employer was a real moron. “You also pay me to ensure the continuation of the organization, sir.” He said it softly, but all the same Jim’s head snapped upwards.

There was a sharpness to his employer’s gaze, a contrast to his sickeningly sweet voice, “Are you implying my dalliance with Dr Hooper is somehow clouding my judgement, _Sebastian?"_

The response came automatically. “Never, sir.”

Jim kept his glare steadfast a moment longer, contemplating the stiffness to his lieutenant’s posture and shoulders. “Good,” he said finally, extending the paper that had been on his desk. “Now off you go, play toy soldier.”

Sebastian stamped his cigarette out into the ashtray by his elbow, climbing out of his chair and crossing the room to accept the document. Grabbing it, his gaze darted downwards when it wasn’t let go from the other’s grip. Moriarty held his eyes in an unabashed stare, the meaning plain to the both of them. Promptly, with that locked scrutiny, Sebastian found his blood turning to ice in his veins.

For the most part he was kept in good graces with Moriarty, and typically he was used to inspire equal parts fear and awe into their customers and enemies. It was the raw anger directed at him for once which took him aback, that he was on the receiving end of that unease.  

In fact, the last time he’d felt this primal emotion so strongly was years ago, before he’d made the acquaintanceship of Professor Moriarty. Unwillingly, he was transported back to India, just after his service in the war(s).

Even after all of this time, he remembered _that_ hunt so clearly, as if the events that transpired had only happened yesterday. The humid heat from the heavy rainfall that happened earlier that morning, surrounded him, making his hair and clothes cling to his skin with sweat. A distinctive droplet inching its way down his spine as he made his way down that blasted drain.

Above all the details he remembered the most, it was the acute sense of thrilling suspense. The hammering of his heart was the soundtrack to his tracking, the flickered glance to the trail of drops of blood that he followed further and further down. The idea that he’d eventually come face to face with his quarry - a pair of glowing eyes and a guttural growl, was as equal parts terrifying as it was _intoxicating_.

And standing in that study, peering into James Moriarty’s eyes, he couldn’t help but see that wounded tiger again. The darkening evening sky glinting off of its bared teeth, the spit and blood; the _fury_ … It took his breath away.

Noisily Sebastian swallowed the lump in his throat, and consciously looked away. The unspoken act of submission had Moriarty giving a slight nod, and the grip was finally released. Taking a step away, Sebastian finally looked down, and read the name that was written.

_Lord Ruthven_

When he met Moriarty’s eye once more, that’s when Sebastian Moran knew that the hunt was on.

 


	6. Chapter 6

When Molly finally entered the morgue, she was pleased to see that it was completely empty. That is, aside from her guest. With a fond sigh to the work ahead of her, Molly unbuttoned her coat and hung it on the hook by the entrance. She took her jacket off as well, tossing it to the side before she rolled up her sleeves past her elbows, and slowly made her way over to the covered body.

“Good morning,” she said softly, “I hope you’ve been treated well prior to my arrival.” Gingerly, she lowered the sheet. “Oh, dear,” she mumbled, clicking her tongue in dismay at the youthful face. The young woman had to be a decade, or perhaps a little more younger than her. Older than her last patient, but a still budding lady all the same.

Molly peeled the sheet off fully, setting it to the side for later. For a moment she stood there, hands on her hips as she surveyed the corpse.

The clothing the deceased wore, placed her easily as being a servant. The riding cloak and the long knitted fingerless gloves told Molly that she’d been outside on an errand when she died. She hadn’t checked yet for wounds, but she didn’t need to. From a mere glance to the corpse’s visage, she immediately knew it was the same. But still, she took a step forward to her side, and moved the fabric of the collar back to look at the anticipated pair of small cuts.

Molly’s lips pursed, thinking then of what Michael had shared with her in confidence.

_“...an oddity that occurred a handful of times, before it disappeared altogether.”_

It was strange, but with her colleague’s words echoing in her skull, she felt something. Just on the outside of her mind, there lurked a faint recognition. She chewed on her bottom lip, lifting a hand to scrub along the side of her face.

 _What is it that I’m missing?_  Her brows furrowed, hand absently falling down. Without thinking, it landed on her neck. Staring off into space, she willed the image to become clearer. Sluggishly, as though she was to her waist in thick mud, she fought for it to reveal itself.

Just as she was about to clasp the memory in her hands, the sweet taste of victory on her tongue, she heard a sharp knock. Everything was forgotten. Startled, Molly dropped her hand, and promptly whirled around.

Across from her, light from the corridor outlining his form, Moriarty was leaning upon the door frame. Molly surmised at once that he’d been watching her far longer than he made his presence known. “Hello,” she mumbled, wincing when the fragile sound bounced off of the walls.

He waited a second longer than socially appropriate to respond, setting her nerves mercilessly further on edge. “Hello.”

Molly’s eyelashes fluttered, pressing her fingernails into her palm as the greeting reverberated around her. She wanted to scream, to ask what he was doing here. Likewise, she desired to cry, and run into his arms as well - to never let him go. Stubbornly, she shoved all of those wants to the side, and stood resolutely there.

But James Moriarty, since the very first day he’d set out to build an empire for himself, had learned to become a patient man. It came to no surprise to either parties, that Molly was the first to break the tense silence, and weakly inquired, “How did you know I was here?”

Moriarty looked away, lazily tucking his hands into his trouser pockets as though the question bored him. And perhaps it did, if Molly went off of his scanning of the morgue. Until finally, his gaze landed on the body behind her.

Shoes clacking loudly on the tiles, he at last, strolled forward. Dismissive of the raucous noise of the door shutting behind him, and the surprised jump it caused.

Rooted to the spot, Molly could merely warily watch as he crossed the room to stand beside the slab. Movements awkward, she turned slightly, to witness fully as he placed a hand on the dead girl’s cheek. If she didn’t know him already, Molly would have guessed from the gentle way he caressed her that he was a grieving relative, or she was a dearly beloved friend.

“Because…” His sudden speaking made her blink into focus. “I know _you_ , my dear Hooper.”

“Do you?” She croaked out, completely caught off guard when he abruptly looked at her. Her reflection stared cautiously back at her in his dark eyes, as he moved close to her, until her back was pressing into the hard cool edge of the slab.

Awkwardly, she curled her hands into fists. They were useless to her at that moment, crushed in between their bodies as Moriarty leaned forward. Her mouth was completely dry, as though she hadn’t tasted water in years. Head tilted back, her eyes darted from him to the side, and back to him again. This happened a couple of times, until Moriarty gripped her chin, and forced her to stare at him.

She noisily gulped, only allowing her gaze to settle on his nose. There was a constant chanting ringing in her ears: _Don’t look up! Don’t look up! Don’t look up!_

The fingers tightly holding onto her, loosened. And calmly, they moved to sweep up to her right cheek. Leaving the tingling sensation she felt in response to frazzle what remaining rational thoughts she had left.

Molly was horribly aware of his breath, warm and sweet with the scent of peppermint. It was though he’d eaten an entire tin of humbugs before he arrived. Offhandedly, she thought of the poisoned sweets tragedy of ‘58. The twenty poor souls who died when arsenic was accidentally used, and the two hundred more that had been severely sick.

Still thinking of this, she had mere seconds to register Jim’s quick glance to her lips, before he kissed her. At that point in time, she thought no longer of poison nor candy. She hadn’t been prepared for it, but even if she knew ahead of time, Molly knew she would not have been ready. And silently rose the question, whether anyone truly could be, when kissed by James Moriarty.

Her tiny noise of surprise was lost somewhere in the room. Entangled, possibly, near the space of Jim’s hand cupping her jaw, or the other one, which was sneakily slipping its way up her dress shirt. To be frank, she couldn’t care less where it had gone, not when she had the full weight of his attention on her. 

She tore her lips away, trying to gulp down as much air as she could as Moriarty peppered kisses from the corner of her mouth, down to the beginning of her throat.

“D-don’t,” she squeaked out, “don’t you want me to take it off?”

Moriarty hummed, occasionally switching to nip. “That’s the plan, dear.” He mumbled, and dropped his hand from her belly to yank the front of her trousers closer to him.

“I-I…” Molly broke off, giving a shudder before she continued, “I didn’t mean that...”

That finally seemed to have caught his attention, and reluctantly he pulled away just enough to peer upwards at her. He rose an eyebrow, straightened up as he impatiently waited for her to elaborate.

Incredibly embarrassed, Molly fought the need to hide her burning face. “I…” She cleared her throat, coming to the cold realization that she’d have to suffer through a cracking voice. “I was referring to the… Uh, the moustache.”

"Ah... _That_." Moriarty gave a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. "It makes no difference to me..." He lowered once more to continue his path of kisses along her neck. Oddly enough, he paused soon after his lips grazed her skin. His voice partially muffled against her flesh, he added, "You know, you look quite fetching with it on."

Flabbergasted, Molly wasn't particularly certain whether she heard him correctly. Thankfully, Moriarty took it upon himself to clarify, so she didn't need to go through the painful task of asking.  "With a handsome visage such as yours, I'd consider it a privilege when I eventually become sliced by your capable hands."

Molly sighed dejectedly, disturbed by the mere notion as she frowned up at the ceiling. "Why would I ever wish to do such a horrid thing?"

Contradicting their morbid conversation, Moriarty's laugh was lighthearted. Easy smile on his lips, he peered up at her, "I'm only planning for the future, dear. Is it so terrible to say that I prefer my corpse being dissected by you than an incompetent butcher?"

Deep down, Molly knew Jim was attempting to be romantic, and to be quite honest, she was flattered by his admission - that above all else, he would entrust _her_ with his soulless form. But... The mentioning of the deceased only reminded her of the one behind them. And ashamed of her own lack of propriety, Molly pressed her hands into Moriarty's shoulders, and whispered softly, "Stop."

He left her no room to worry over the possibility of what if he didn't comply. After a short pause, quick and wordless, Moriarty withdrew his hands and took a step back. The only emotion she saw in his blank expression, was the slight narrowing of his eyes. His confusion followed as her gaze drifted over to the young girl's body.

Helpless to the pained breath she sharply sucked in, Molly curled her fingers in dismay. She didn't understand why the sight upset her so - not to make the mistake that she didn't typically have compassion for the departed who made the journey into her morgue, but she wasn't sure why _this_ particular patient struck a cord with her. Why the pale youthful face resonated with her so clearly. 

She felt the heat of his gaze then, flickering between her and the girl. Moriarty leaned forward, hands drumming when he rested them on top of the morgue slab. The rhythmic tapping filled the emptiness between them, a composition that Molly was unable to put a name to. 

Then, just as sudden as he started, he ceased the melody. Without looking at her, his head tilted. "Do you ever think of him?" The soft quality of his voice took her aback, and for a stunned second, she wasn't confident whether he posed the question to her, or it was being extended to the dead.

Even so, Molly managed a nervous, "I beg your pardon?" And yet, it was as though he hadn't heard her remark.

His voice was only marginally louder, still very much a whisper, but in that still room it was like a shout. "Are you thinking of him now?"

Molly's nose scrunched, wincing as she realized how hard she was pressing her fingernails into her palms. There was no need to ask who he was referring to, she knew it was Lord Ruthven who was on his mind. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, gosh. I apologize for how short this chapter is. It was meant to be a lot longer, but I felt like it was awkward in places, so I ended up slicing it in half. If everything goes well, hopefully, you won't have to wait too long for the final chapter. ♥


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